


this love is slower than the others

by petraquince



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angry Erik, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3321827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petraquince/pseuds/petraquince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They will meet seven times: seven chances to undo whatever their past selves have wrought, seven chances to make it even worse. This will probably not end well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this love is slower than the others

_“Love is the voice under all silences.” -- e.e. cummings_

 

Bars weren’t exactly the best places to meet potential soul mates. There was something about the raw, alcohol saturated settings that weren't exactly conducive to everlasting relationships.

Well, that’s what Charles kept telling himself, anyway. It was the singer with the shoulders who was causing him to question this law of relationships. Because, _my god_ , he was attractive. Strikingly so. On anyone else, the effect of his musculature would’ve been gawky and awkward, but he was so fluid _and_ he gestured with his huge hands as he sang. His voice was like the plucked string that never broke under pressure no matter how wronged it was. The microphone kept buzzing and the bass was much too high, but he sang on -- with his lovely and husky voice. Under the fluorescent lights, his lights looked as cool and silver as mercury.

And then he started singing Billie Holiday, and it was all over. There wasn’t any doubt in Charles’ mind that they were meant to be. That was it, never mind that they’d never met before and that they were complete and utter strangers. He tried not to stare too obviously from his tucked away table in the corner.

“ _He’s no hero out of books, but I love him, yes I love him…_ ”

Yep. Done. Signed and sealed.

 

It was Erik’s mama who taught how him to sing properly -- thousands of years ago, back when the world was still golden and innocence was still a viable state of mind.

_(Open your mouth a little wider, schatzi. That’s it, good. Now say ‘aah’.)_

Those lessons were his brightest memories, little oases in the ravaged landscape of his thoughts. Singing was something sacrosanct and holy, the purest thing about him. And he was not pure by any stretch of the imagination.

And now there was a man staring at him from the corner of this dusty little place, his mouth half-open and his big blue ( _innocent_ ) eyes filled with amazement. He was sharply dressed, in a crisp purple shirt and dark wash jeans whose structure strongly hinted at _recently purchased_. Erik’s turtleneck had patched elbows and his chinos were threadbare.

There was a strange wave of fury in him, sudden and swift, and his voice almost faltered at the force of it, but he caught himself. Stopping would be inexcusable. 

He finished the song with a decrescendo and the piano trailed off, and not one moment too soon. He nodded to the audience sharply, ignoring the scattered smatterings of applause and stepped down from the little raised stage. Emma behind the bar raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow and mouthed “what the hell?” at him.

He glared at her and shook his head once. Her disapproving expression did not change per se, but something in it clicked and grudging understanding filled her pale eyes. She jerked her chin in clear dismissal.

He walked out of the bar and did not look back.

 

Charles, at his table, bit his fist and tried to ignore the nonsensical little jabs to his heart. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Lyrics from Billie Holiday's My Man (Mon Homme)


End file.
